The Hogan Zone:  The Key of Time
by 80sarcades
Summary: Meet James Kinchloe, a lonely man condemned to relive the mistakes of the past. Now in his golden years, James wonders what the point of his life was, and is. He will soon find out that every life has a purpose…courtesy of the Hogan Zone.
1. Chapter 1

**_The Hogan Zone: The Key of Time  
>by 80sarcades<em>**

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><p><em>Welcome! First, I want to thank everyone who reviewed my last story, <span>The Guest<span>. Your kind (or otherwise) thoughts are always appreciated! I kind of took a break from everything - even email - but now I'm back to writing again! And trying to look through two month's worth of stories!_

_This story is a little bit different. I've always wondered about James Kinchloe. How did he, a black man, end up at a Luftwaffe POW camp as Hogan's right-hand man? This story is set in 1986 from his POV, with lots of angst on his part and a little backstory here and there. Rated 'T' for occasional lauguage; the parts in italics are his inner thoughts. I hope you enjoy it!_

_Disclaimer: Never! Ever! Unless I'm sued..._

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><p><em>God, I miss her.<em>

James Kinchloe looked at the framed photograph of his wife and shook his head. _Two years_, he thought sadly. _Where does it all go?_

He shuffled his way into the living room before gratefully dropping his aching body into the worn leather recliner. The dull evening glow coming through the front window gave off just enough light for his hand to find the television remote. Fortunately, his fingers weren't too stiff today; some days not even Tylenol would help. For a while, he watched a football game before his mind and body dozed off into slumber. By the time he awoke, the evening news was on. Not that anything really interesting happened in the world.

_Just another damned day._

He looked over at a nearby cabinet and idly wondered about opening up the bottle of bourbon he kept there. After a moment, he decided against it. _What would be the point?_ a part of his mind wondered, somewhat sarcastically. _They didn't even call today. None of them did. Happy Birthday, James_! A smiling image of his late spouse drifted through his mind. With effort, he banished the painful memories that followed it. _And Maddie…_

_Maybe I should just go ahead and get plastered. What else did I expect?_

He glanced around the room. Framed photographs and papers lined the walls. Images of his children and grandchildren. Friends from the service, then afterwards with the post office. His honorable discharge…

_None of it means a damn when you get old, does it? Just a bunch of memories and no one to share them with. Stuff for people to clear out after you're gone_.

James pushed himself up from the recliner and slowly walked out of the room. As he moved down the hallway, his mind absently noted a few chores that needed to be done here and there. A loose baseboard, for instance. A stained ceiling tile…

_Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow._

He walked into the bedroom, took his red bathrobe off, and then sat down on the edge of the bed. James stretched out his bony and scarred right hand to the bedside table and flicked a metal switch. The harsh white light that suddenly illuminated the room made his eyes blink several times even as his fingers pulled open a nearby drawer. Inside, shining dully from the reflected glow, lay his old .45. The former Sergeant lifted the weapon out of the drawer and felt the comforting weight settle into his palm.

With a practiced motion, James released the clip from the pistol and checked the rounds inside the metal shaft. Satisfied, he pushed it back into place until he heard a heavy _click_. He looked inside the muzzle, the interior as dark as his skin…

_Maybe I should just do it._

For a long moment James sat alone in silence, his mind at war with itself. Finally, he came to a decision.

_No._

He shook his head slightly before putting the pistol away. The former POW eyed the drawer longingly.

_Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow._

James turned the lamp off and lay down on the bed. He lay awake, staring into the darkness, before he finally closed his eyes and fell off to sleep. Then the nightmares began.

_Meet James Kinchloe, a lonely man condemned to relive the mistakes of the past. Now in his golden years, James wonders what the point of his life was, and is. He will soon find out that every life has a purpose…courtesy of the Hogan Zone._

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><p><em>AN: For those of you who may be wondering, I did *not* rip off that well known show ending in the word 'Zone'. Instead, I merely borrowed several aspects of it for the enjoyment of HH fans!_

_All credit for the original source of the story title / format idea goes to the Twilight Zone. The original series, not that awful version of it they made in the 80's ::shiver::_


	2. An Interesting Find

_**The Hogan Zone: The Key of Time**_  
><em><strong>by 80sarcades<strong>_

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><p><em>Welcome back! As you have already read, this story has some dark momentsmemories for Kinch. Rest asssured that it won't end like that; this is one of the Heroes, after all! One graphic memory in this chapter._

_Disclaimer: Will this story count against me at Fanfic Court?_

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><p><em><strong>Chapter Two: An Interesting Find<strong>_

Monday, like all the others before it, started normally.

His retirement checks arrived, as usual. So did the daily newspaper. Unfortunately, that was about as exciting as his life ever got. The telephone was still silent; James eyed it with an annoyed glare.

_They could have at least said, "Hey Dad, how are you! We'll call you next year!" There would have been that, huh?_

With a depressed sigh, he walked to the foyer and donned his hat, gloves, and long coat before opening the front door. The old man grimaced as the cold air outside barreled its way around him and into the warm house before he stepped outside and locked the heavy aperture behind him. As he walked down to the corner stop, the icy Detroit winter wind continued to buffet itself repeatedly against his heavy cloth barriers with little success. Fortunately, the snow and slush on the wet pavement wasn't too much for him to worry about today. However, James knew it wouldn't last. In truth, the former prisoner of war didn't mind the cold that much anymore. After all, he had been freezing in more Godawful places around the world than he cared to remember. The chill breeze, however, brought more cold images to mind: _the Colonel laying on the dirty floor, blood oozing through the holes in his brown leather jacket…_

_Stop that! _he interrupted, chiding himself. _You couldn't stop what happened! You were down in the tunnel, for God's sake! No one else blamed you; it wasn't your fault!_

_So why do you feel so guilty? Because you're the only one that survived? Or because you didn't die?_

Truthfully, James had no answer to that question. It still didn't change how he felt.

The bus ride, as well as his grocery shopping, was uneventful. He paid for his items and walked back out to the stop for the return trip. The wind continued to slash at his clothes with an almost icy relentlessness. If anything, he noted, the blasts seemed to be colder than before. _Or is it just my imagination?_ Eventually, after a long wait, he arrived back at home and put the groceries away. With his errand done, he then walked to the living room and switched on the TV. As he idly watched the screen, the weather forecaster for the noon news - some blonde white woman this time; at least she was cuter than the girl on channel six - took gleeful pleasure in announcing a heavy snowfall for that night.

_Like I care. Not like I'm going anywhere. At least I can do some work around here that I've been putting off. Gives me something to do. Not like I can go sledding anymore._

He chuckled darkly at the idea. The last time he had actually gotten on a sled - actually, a old board with some rails and a string attached to the front to steer by - he had plowed head on into a tree. God only knew how he survived. Part of being a kid, he supposed.

Still, doing something was better than nothing. James spent part of the afternoon doing some odd repairs before descending to the basement to check on the furnace. With that done, he eyed the assorted boxes on the other side of the room. A lot of them were junk. Some contained clothes that he really needed to donate to the church. Then there was his footlocker.

It wasn't his original Army issue footlocker. That one had gone to his parents and had disappeared somewhere along the line. No, this one he had picked up after the war. James wiped away the dust that covered the top lid. His old rank and name were still stenciled, military style, beneath the gray layer of filth. He had probably opened it a few times since leaving the service. Mostly, it was just another box.

_A box the kids can deal with someday. I remember Robert asking me "What'd you do in the war, Dad?"_

_What did I tell him? "I was a radio operator, son. I sent messages…"_

_I still remember his face. He was so disappointed; I guess he thought I was the black version of Audie Murphy._

_But what was I supposed to tell him? That I ran a radio in a tunnel underneath a POW camp? He wouldn't have believed that. He wouldn't have believed that I took command of a unit when its officers got killed, either; that was in Korea._

He shook the idle thoughts away before standing up. A ring of assorted keys hung from a nail on a nearby column. With a slow motion of his hand, he took the keyset down and walked back to the footlocker. It took him a minute to find the right piece of metal before his aching fingers undid the lock. As James opened the lid, a musty smell greeted his nostrils. He looked through the contents, curious.

_Old fatigues. Why the hell I kept them, I don't know…_

A square leather case, tucked away in one corner. Inside were his ribbons and devices as well as several smaller boxes. He picked up a blue pin and looked at it. _CIB. Technically, I didn't qualify for it; my MOS was in radios. When I took over that unit, however, I qualified. Not that I was _qualified _to lead men into combat._

He opened one of the boxes; inside, a medal hung from a purple ribbon.

_Purple Heart. Means I didn't duck quick enough. _

James then unveiled the contents of the second box. _DSC. Meant I did something really damned stupid and lived to tell about it. _An image of two men popped into his mind's eye. _So did Jackson and Barnes._

The rest of the interior contained assorted junk and bric-a-brac. He supposed the contents were worth something to a collector. _Someone else can find that out, thanks. _As he locked the container again, another medium-sized box in the corner caught his eye. It was wooden, whatever it was; he was surprised that the case hadn't rotted away with age.

_What the hell is that?_

With a raised eyebrow, he stood up and shuffled over to his new find. James grimaced as he moved the case away from the basement wall. Whatever it was, it was certainly _heavy. _He laid the box on the floor, opened its tarnished silver latches, and then frowned at the collection of parts, tubes, and papers carefully packed away inside. It took him a minute to recognize it for what it was. When he finally did, the resulting memories surprised him.

_Damn, that's the old backup radio from Stalag 13! How the hell did it get here?_

_Oh, right. I took it apart and carried it home. Guess I never got around to setting it up. Even the old Morse key is there. Don't see the microphone anywhere, but that broke down a few months before the war ended._

_I wonder if I should put it together just for old times sake? It beats the hell out of doing whatever I was going to do, so why not?_

With some effort, James was able to get the box up the basement stairs and into the house. By the time it lay on the kitchen table, he was exhausted; an old World War Two slogan - _Is this trip really necessary? _- humorously popped into his mind, making him chuckle. The first time he had heard it was from a downed airman, an American, that he and Newkirk had picked up in the woods one night. At Stalag 13, the man had taken one look at the barbed wire and guard towers before turning around and asking them that very question. _And he was serious! I don't know how we kept the guards from hearing us laugh our butts off! Oh, the risks we took…_

The former Army Sergeant laid the parts onto the table and wondered again if he should actually bother with it at all. There was a lot he had forgotten in the last forty years…

_And a lot of stuff I wish I could forget._

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><p>For once, the weatherman - weathergirl, he corrected himself - was actually right about something. As the first snow flurries fell, he raised an eyebrow in surprise. A long-buried memory of his first year as a letter carrier came to mind.<p>

_Life could be worse, James,_ he thought wryly. _You could be out there right now, delivering the mail. And if you were really unlucky, you probably would forget to carry your repellant when a dog got after you! _A brief laugh escaped his lips and echoed throughout the kitchen. _Now that was bad enough. But when the cops showed up and found a mailman treed by a Rottweiler…_

_Well, I guess it gave them a good laugh later. Then again, looking back, it was kind of funny. Just not at the time!_

The radio was also interesting. To be sure, it was only because it was something different in his life. On the other hand, he was actually enjoying the challenge of figuring out where the assorted parts went. It wasn't his first time to do that. Back when he was sixteen years old James had built his first ham radio out of scavenged and secondhand parts. Unfortunately, the thrill of actually running a set like that was short lived. Especially after his parents found out what was causing their living room radio to go bonkers.

_At least I did it. Me, the scrawny colored kid,_ James proudly thought. _When the Army decided to 'teach' me radio, I thought I had died and gone to heaven when I got to play with their shiny sets._

Despite the suitcase size, the backup radio was actually portable for the 1940's. It didn't have the power the camp radio did, but it was highly useful. James recalled that they had used it to contact some of the other resistance units when the primary radio went out. As he also remembered, there was also one time or two they had fooled the Gestapo with it.

_I wonder what happened to the camp radio?_

He let the thought go. At that point, it really hadn't mattered; the war was over. In truth, he didn't even know what happened to Stalag 13. The last actual memory he had of the camp was getting on a truck and heading out the front gates. He still remembered Klink and Schultz on that last day. With bitter irony, they - along with the other guards - were being moved into the now-deserted prison barracks. In a further twist of the knife, the new prisoners would also be filling in the tunnels beneath camp with several tons of dirt. A clear image of the German Kommandant and his Sergeant drifted through his mind, causing guilt to echo through his soul.

_The expressions on their faces. Like they had lost everything. When you think about it, they had; it must have been humiliating to see your country surrender twice in a lifetime. Klink was an idiot, yeah. But he was a lot better than the rest of those damned Kommandants. Schultz was practically one of us; he also could have been a lot worse._

_Neither of them deserved that. I hope their lives turned out okay. God, I hope so._

By late afternoon, he was partially finished with rebuilding the set. Unfortunately, the radio still needed a bit of work before it would be operational. For instance, he had to convert the power supply to American use and install a few parts that were missing from the wooden box. Nothing too difficult for a man of his skill.

_I'll call Radio Shack tomorrow and ask Zeke to send me the parts I need. He still owes me twenty from the game two weeks ago. About time he paid up anyway._

James left the radio on the table while he made dinner. For a change, he ate his meal at the kitchen table. Occasionally, his eyes would glance across the table and at the old set. Eventually, after a night of watching TV, he stumbled upstairs and fell into bed. This time, however, he barely spared a glance at the bedside drawer as he closed his eyes and went to hellish sleep.

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><p><em>An Army Combat Infantryman's badge (CIB) is awarded when someone, officer or enlisted, particpates in active ground combat. It is only awarded to those members holding a infantry or special forces MOS (Military Occupational Speciality; your job in the military, in other words). It's a stretch having Kinch get one, but we can say that he was trained and attached to an infantry unit at some point. The Distinguished Service Cross (DSC) is the second highest Army decoration, just short of the Medal of Honor.<em>

_Audie Murphy was the most highly decorated soldier of World War Two. _

_As always, thanks for reading!_


	3. Of Memories, and Radios

_**The Hogan Zone: The Key of Time**_  
><em><strong>by 80sarcades<strong>_

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><p><em>Welcome back! First, I'd like to thank everyone who has reviewed this fic so far! For those of you 'on the fence' concerning this story (particularly St PA): yes, this story has character death. Yes, this tale is a bit dark. However, there is a happy ending to this story...and we haven't even hit the spooky aspect yet. Give it a chance; hopefully, I won't disappoint you. The first part of the story contains a reference to 'The General Swap' episode.<em>

_A note to any CW operators: I adjusted the format for the radio messages (beginning at the end of this chapter and continuing onward) for easier readability. For the purposes of this story, the sender and receiver are not going to care about a set format. _

_Disclaimer: Does anyone know a good lawyer for Fanfic court? I'd try Lionel Hutz, but someone already grabbed him..._

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 3: Of Memories, and Radios<strong>_

The old man lay in the cold morning darkness, his thoughts drifting to another place and time...

_It's funny what you remember, isn't it?_

_I remember the way they laughed and joked around. Carter was always excited about something; not even prison camp could take that away. In some ways, he was the only kid in camp. Newkirk and LeBeau...sometimes, you could imagine them as mismatched brothers with different accents. One could steal, and the other could cook. Anywhere else, and they'd be a bad Laurel and Hardy act. At Stalag 13, though, they were priceless. And the Colonel..._

The former POW paused as a image of his former commander came to mind. Without realizing it, his lips curled upward into a smile.

_...man, he could come up with plans that made you think! You'd be sitting there trying to wonder how we'd get one over on the Krauts. All of a sudden, he'd come up with this beautiful setup. And it'd work! Somehow, he had a way for making the bad guys want to walk into his web. We were lucky. Too lucky. And one day, it ran out..._

A tear, unnoticed, slipped out of the corner of his eye as he relived what happened next. James forced his mind to go on.

_...afterward...when we were liberated...everyone wanted to know what happened to the Colonel. The British officers were the worst. All of that, 'Sorry for that, old chap. We know he did his best.' Like it was his fate to die! The American brass weren't much better than that. Except for General Barton._

_By then, he was a two-star. General or not, he took the time to come and talk to me. Back in Stalag 13, he was a pain in the butt. In London, though, he was the good guy. For an officer, anyway. I had to admit I was surprised when he asked if there was anything he could do for me._

_Honestly, I was a realist. Still am. Jobs back home were going to be tough to get, and that was just for the white guys. So I told General Barton I wanted to stay in. He lived up to his part of the bargain. I went home, took my thirty day leave, then received orders to my next post. A good one, too. Maybe he fixed it because he felt guilty at how he treated the Colonel. Maybe he really felt sorry for me. At least he didn't pity me to my face. Not like the others._

_Every so often, I'd meet someone that passed through the tunnels. They'd always recognize me. Sometimes, they knew about what happened. Sometimes, they didn't. It got so that I couldn't stand being reminded about it anymore. When they asked me in '47 if I wanted to stay with the Army or go with the Air Force, I chose Army. Even then, I wasn't immune from it. And certainly not from the General._

James threw back the covers and slowly rose from the warm bed before shuffling to the window. The white snow outside layered everything in sight with a thick powdery mush. As he silently watched, a man trudging through the slush slipped on a patch of ice and fell on his backside. A dry chuckle echoed through the large bedroom.

_Sorry, buddy. Better you than me!_

_So...where was I? Oh, yeah: the General. This was in what...'54? '55? It was after Korea. I was at Fort Benning when the CG, General Myers, dropped by on an inspection tour. Naturally, we knew he was coming. He had some Air Force two-star with him. To this day, I still don't know how that guy made the connection between me and Colonel Hogan. I remember all of the faces that passed through the operation. I know his wasn't one of them. Yet somehow he knew me._

_He was polite enough, that was for sure. It was only when he turned away that I heard his comment to the Commanding General. Said that Hogan was one of 'General Marshall's golden boys' while the real officers had to prove themselves._

_Honestly, I should have decked the man right then and there. Don't know why I didn't. But I wasn't going to let him get away with what he said about the Colonel, either. Instead, I just laughed out loud. The blue hat turned around and asked me what my problem was. And I said, "No problem, sir. I just heard what you said, and I have to agree with you."_

_Well, that surprised him. And he made the mistake of saying, "How so?" So then I told him that cream always rises faster than shit. And oh, man, did he get mad! Wanted to haul me away on charges right then and there; I guess my General talked him out of it. Didn't get me out of trouble with him, though. When he called me to his office the next day I knew I was in for it._

_He had me stand at attention the whole time he was chewing me out. Didn't yell at me, either. By the time he was done, I was ashamed. Not for what I'd done, though; I'd do it again at the drop of a hat. Instead, I was embarrassed that I made the man look like a fool in front of the Air Force. Eventually, he let me drop to stand at ease before he held up a thick form that he explained was a letter of reprimand. He read the form out to me, asked me if I had any questions, and then signed off on it before he called for his secretary. A copy of the form, as I expected, was sent off to that Air Force General. No surprise there. The others would go on to my personnel file and God only knows where else._

_After she left, General Myers gave me a hard look before he tore the rest of the reprimand in two, carbons and all, and dumped it into the trash can. Unofficially, he told me that he had known the Air Force General at West Point and had been waiting for the better part of twenty years for someone to put the man in his place. The fact that was an enlisted man made it even better. And, between us, he apologized for what the guy said. He had known Colonel Hogan, too, but only indirectly. It hadn't come up between him and his Air Force counterpart._

_General Myers was one of the good guys. I think they retired him under the thirty-and-five rule. Sad day for the Army when that happened._

James turned his attention to the snow again. Just looking at the frozen stuff made him think of the various winters he had been in. Not to mention Stalag 13; the small stove they had wouldn't warm up coffee worth a damn, much less a freezing barracks. He got dressed and headed downstairs before making a light breakfast. As he did so, his eyes stared at the radio for a moment. There just seemed to be something _fascinating_ about it.

_Then again, it's just like me: broken down and useless. Well, not for long!_

At nine, he placed a phone call to Zeke. It took some haggling, but the other man finally caved in and agreed to send his son over with the requested parts. For the next few hours, James puttered around the house and did some odd work. The strange feeling of anticipation danced about inside of him. A part of his mind wondered why he felt like that; it usually only turned out one way. Disappointment, plain and simple.

Three hours later, his doorbell finally rang. Willie, Zeke's son, stood out on the front doorstep with a bundle in his frozen hands. For the hell of it, James dug his wallet out and gave the kid ten bucks. It was hell moving through this slushy crap even for a young person. Besides, Willie was a nice kid anyway; James liked him.

_And who the hell else would I spend it on?_

By the time he had the radio functional it was already early evening. With a feeling of triumph, James plugged the new wire cord into the wall socket and sat down before the small radio. Perhaps it would work. _Or maybe not._

He flicked the POWER switch and watched in satisfaction as the glass tubes inside the metal housing flared into life.

_Good thing, too. God only knows where I would find spares nowadays, and then only if I was lucky. _

He plugged in the worn set of old earphones and held them to the side of his head, only to hear-

_Nothing. What did I expect?_ His eyes automatically traveled to the switches on the front of the panel.

_James, you dumbass,_ he cursed himself, then flicked another metal switch from TRANS to REC.

Instantly, the headphones came to life with crackling static. James turned the frequency selector before switching to several other bands. Although he could have sworn he heard a woman's voice, saying God only knew what, it soon faded out to nothing but white noise.

_Again, what did I expect?_ he thought dejectedly. _I don't have an aerial up, and I'm surprised that this piece of junk actually works. Wrong time of day, anyway._

_Look at the bright side: at least it's up and running. I'm not entirely useless_, he thought, smirking._ I'll play with it tomorrow. _He glanced over at the roll of wire that had come with the package. _I'll put up an antenna tomorrow night, too. Probably won't be a decent one, but who cares?_ James turned the power off to the set and watched the lights die out before he slowly got up from the chair. As he began his nightly ritual, he unplugged the set; he doubted that a fire would start but why take the chance?

Later, as he made dinner at the kitchen counter, he glanced at the radio again. A wave of anger, stirred by old memories, suddenly overcame him, prompting him to shake his head in disgust. _You know, my birthday was crappy. So was the last one. I should be happily retired with my wife and doing things instead of wishing life was damn well different! Instead, the cancer…_

James closed his eyes as dark memories surfaced once again. Somehow, he was able to force the terrible images away. By the time he did so, his cheeks were already damp with warm tears; a soft sob escaped his lips before he finally got his emotions under control.

_We never saw that coming. Honestly, I thought I would be the first to go. Instead…_

_What's the point, God?_ _Are we supposed to suffer just for fun? Haven't I done enough of that? I wasn't there for my friends when the chips were down. Then, I had to watch my wife die. I just wish, for once, to know why the hell I should stay around and get older? One pull, God. One pull on the trigger, and I'm with her. And I have to talk myself out of it. Why?_

Like a plague, the depressing thoughts continued to race through his mind even while his hands finished preparing supper. Without thinking about it, he put the dinner plate and a drink on a nearby tray before picking it up and heading towards the exit. James used his elbow to turn out the kitchen light and was soon nestled at his usual warm comfy spot before the TV. He ate, then watched some mindless programs before he felt sleep begin to overtake him. As he drifted off, two additional thoughts came to mind. Later, he wouldn't even remember thinking them.

_I wish I knew what the point of my life is, God. I wish I could have done something for my friends…_

Minutes later, he was fast asleep.

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><p>Save for the sound of the television, the rest of the house was silent.<p>

Oddly, there was a sudden metallic _click_ from the kitchen. A minute later, a golden light warmed the walls for a long moment before the room faded back into the darkness.

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><p>With a start, James Kinchloe woke up from his latest nightmare. For a groggy moment, he wondered where he was before his mind finally focused on the familiar surroundings. The luminous hands on the wall clock, once he got his blurry eyes to adjust in the dim light, read 3:23 A.M.<p>

_Why the hell do we dream, anyway?_ he snarled. _More important: why do we remember them? This one was bad enough._

_Why'd he shoot the rest of them? Wasn't the Colonel enough for you, you bastard? No. You had to take the rest of my friends with you. Newkirk. LeBeau. Carter._

_Of all people, why him? He was harmless. I don't even think he ever hated anyone, and certainly not for being colored. To him, the war was almost a game. A game that you ruined._

_Wasn't your madness enough? No, you just had to go out in a blaze of glory and take my best friends with you. I should have been with them. Could have done something, instead of sitting on my ass…_

He closed his eyes and let the anger drift away. It wasn't entirely gone. Neither was the guilt. For the moment, at least, it was enough. James stood up from the recliner and felt his joints pop as he slowly stretched his limbs. His hands ached slightly, but not too bad. At least he could bend his fingers, and that was good enough. Might as well go to bed.

He went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. As he drained it, the radio on the table caught his attention.

_Well, why not? Maybe I'll get something on this museum piece. I need a laugh right now, anyway._

James washed his glass out and put it back in its place before walking to the kitchen table. He grabbed the loose plug with one hand and put it into the wall socket before sitting down in the nearby wood chair. For a moment, he fingered the old papers that came with the radio - a schematic diagram and some other random tidbits - before his index finger reached forward to flip the POWER switch on. He quickly put on the headphones and waited. After a minute, he began to hear static in his ears as the set finally warmed up. Unfortunately, that was all he ever heard. Nothing came through despite the twists and turns of the selector knob.

He reached out and touched the black knob of the Morse key - specifically, a Navy J5 - before snorting in amusement. _Maybe I should try the damned thing out. It's been a while since I actually touched a real one instead of a J38._ It was the original key from the main set in camp; he still didn't know how a Navy version of the device made it to Stalag 13. Despite its age, the key looked brand new. Given all that happened, he was surprised it hadn't rusted away.

_But that's why I saved it. Honestly, it was my life up to that point. I sure wasn't going about to leave it behind._ James hesitated a moment before he moved the switch from REC to TRANS. _There's no aerial, so who would pick it up? Besides, I doubt the FCC would have the time to look for me even if they heard anything. They need to get rid of some of the crap on TV anyway._

_So what do I send? I still know the code; how many times have I tapped out messages on boards and whatever else just for the hell of it? Wished the kids had bothered to learn it, besides Robert. _His face frowned for a moment, then suddenly brightened as an idea occurred to him.

_How many times did I sit in the damned tunnel sending messages to Goldilocks and think about the guys sitting on the receiving end? The ones that were sitting in a nice room with actual radios instead of something I mostly built from airdrops and God knows what else? Ok, so it's my turn now. _

James reached out and lovingly caressed the key with his fingers before he grasped the top knob. His fingers slowly tapped out a message in the old shorthand:

_GL PB K_

_[Papa Bear, this is Goldilocks. Come in]_

He did it two more times, listening to the metallic click of the dashes and dots; a faint smile crossed his face.

_GL PB K_

_GL PB K_

* * *

><p><em>The thirty-and-five rule was an Army regulation designed to get rid of senior personnel (namely, Generals) after World War Two. Basically, if you had thirty years of service and hadn't been promoted in the last five years, then you were retired so other people could move up.<em>

_As always, thanks for reading!_


	4. Contact

_**The Hogan Zone: The Key of Time**_  
><em><strong>by 80sarcades<strong>_

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><p><em>Welcome back, and thank you for reading! Sorry for the very late post; I've been a bit 'under the weather' this weekend with a bacterial infection. I hope you enjoy the chapter!<em>

_A note to any CW operators: I adjusted the format for the radio messages for easier readability. For the purposes of this story, the sender and receiver are not going to care about a set format. _

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 4: Contact<strong>_

_Stalag 13_  
><em>December 6th, 1944<em>

James Kinchloe was cold.

Ironically, the chilly tunnel was warmer than the rest of the barracks above. Here there were no holes in the wall for the wind to enter. However, it still didn't help; his worn fatigue jacket - as well as the sweater his mother had sent him over the summer - could only do so much to keep him warm.

_With any luck, it won't be too much longer before the Army can get here,_ he mused hopefully. _If the message gets though in time. God, I hope it did. If not…_

Kinch quickly derailed that train of thought. The possibility of spending another month or two as a POW - much less another day - was something he didn't want to think about. What was really frustrating was the information that they had received recently: the Germans were planning a major counteroffensive against the Allies in France and Belgium. Unfortunately, the camp radio had already gone on the fritz due to shock from a nearby bombing raid. The information, as well as the request for spare parts, had to be relayed to England via one of the other underground groups. London, in turn, would have to drop the necessary items to repair the radio.

Just going out to retrieve an airdrop would be dangerous. After what happened with Stalag Luft III, no one was willing to take any risky chances. Worse yet, the backup radio set was on loan to another resistance group; they wouldn't get it back for another week. So Kinch was doing about the only thing he could do at the moment: write a letter.

At least it kept his mind off the weather.

_Dear Momma-_

_Still here, as usual. Yesterday, I actually received three letters from you and one from Madeline, so my day was made. I was sorry to hear about Marcus being in the hospital, but it could be worse. At least his draft card keeps him out of the war. It's pretty cold here, and that's no lie._

_If there's one thing that I can say I miss about home (besides you) it would have to be your singing. To be honest, I would pretty much listen to any female voice right now, and that includes Aunt May! We had a group this year that tried to sing Christmas carols and other stuff, but it was so bad that even the dogs howled at us to shut up! _

_There's not… _

Kinch frowned, then put down his pen. For a moment, he could have sworn he had heard a series of muted _beeps_. He shrugged it off; it could have been worse.

_At least I'm not doing Morse in my sleep. I'd go insane._

A warm puff of steam, accompanied by a snorted chuckle, rose from the Sergeant's lips. _Every so often, I find myself tapping a message on a board or somesuch_, he amusedly thought. _Don't know why; I just do. Probably do it when I get old, too._ With a smile, he picked the pen up off of the desk. Just then he heard the beeps start back up. This time, the sound was coming from the nearby headphones. Kinch haphazardly tossed the paper and pen onto the rough wooden table before grabbing the cans off of a rusty hook. With a quick motion, the black headphones went over his ears; this time he heard what was being 'said'.

[Papa Bear, this is Goldilocks. Come in]

Stunned, his eyes glanced in disbelief at the radio set. _It's busted. No way we can send or receive anything. All of the switches are off. Even the damn breaker is off!_

_So how the hell are we receiving?_

A cold chill swept down his spine even as he quickly looked over his shoulder. To his relief, there was nothing there. He let out a long breath of nervousness before reaching for the nearby Morse key.

_Then again, I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth_, he decided._ If it works, it works._ His fingers grabbed the knob of the J5 key and tapped out a message:

_PB GL GA TC PSE_

* * *

><p>Without thinking about it, James flipped the switch to receive and listened carefully. Like before, he heard nothing.<p>

_Well, that was a fun trip down memory lane,_ he sarcastically thought. _Guess it really does take two to tango, huh? Enough is enough. I'm going to bed._

His hand reached up to the power switch, ready to turn the set off-

-and then stopped. A series of dots and dashes was coming though; his mind automatically listened to the beat of the 'music.' The message was short and simple:

_PB GL GA TC PSE_

[Papa Bear to Goldilocks. Go ahead. Time check, please]

_What is this? A joke? And why use PB? It's not a real callsign. Then again, neither is the one for Goldilocks._

_And just who the hell would be up at this time of night? Even the druggies have to go to sleep sometime. Maybe it's one of the Boy Scouts in the neighborhood. I did help Jake's boy with his project; he's getting pretty good at taking code._

_But on a school night? Whoever it is, their signal is pretty strong, especially since I don't have an antenna. Probably some neighborhood night owl or such. Ok, I'll play along._

James glanced at the clock: 3:55 AM. His fingers moved the switch to transmit, then danced on the key as he tapped out the following message:

_GL PB GM 0355 6Dec86_

* * *

><p>"Kinch?"<p>

The voice, as well as the tap on his shoulder, made Sergeant Kinchloe visibly _jump_ in his chair. He whirled around to see the Senior Prisoner of War, Colonel Robert Hogan, standing behind him.

"Sorry, Colonel," he breathed shakily. "Guess you startled me."

Hogan snorted in amusement before his curious eyes looked at the headphones Kinch was wearing. "I thought you said the radio was out?"

"It's still busted, but…" Kinch's voice trailed off into nothingness as he tried to figure out what to say. "I don't know what's going on, Colonel," he finally admitted, his brow furrowed in confusion. "All I know is that Goldilocks contacted me just a minute ago. How, I don't know."

For a long moment Hogan looked at his Sergeant. "You alright, Kinch?" he asked softly. His eyes, Kinchloe noted now, were suddenly full of concern. Worry that his second-in-command was finally cracking under the pressure, so close to the end of the war…

Just then the headphones exploded into noise, startling the radioman. A relieved Kinch reached out and quickly flipped the switch to turn on the speaker so that Hogan could hear for himself. This time, there was no mistaking the message. The sound of the electronic noise echoed off the dirt walls of the tunnel system:

_GL PB GM 0355 6Dec86_

[Goldilocks to Papa Bear. Good morning. The time is 0355, December 6th 1986]

The message repeated itself once before the heavy silence returned. This time, Hogan's expression was one of surprise. Although Kinch was better at anything concerning radios, Hogan was no slouch himself. He also knew Morse code as well. The Colonel looked at the enlisted man with a puzzled expression.

"Did he just say December 6th, _1986_?" Hogan asked incredulously, warily eyeing the radio speaker.

Kinch nodded slowly, grateful that he wasn't the only one to hear the strange message. "That's what he said, Colonel," he confirmed. "Look at the radio, then tell me if I'm crazy."

Colonel Hogan studied the radio, then the main breaker switch. Everything was off. He then put his hands on the two parts that made up the main radio set. Both of them were stone cold.

The set was dead. What was more, the speaker that they had just listened to ran on the same power the radio used. Otherwise, it didn't work. Yet they heard the message come through the cloth speaker loud and clear.

_How was that possible?_

Hogan shook his head. "Maybe we're both hallucinating," he suggested, though he didn't really believe it.

"At the same time?" Kinch snorted. "Colonel, for what its worth, if I'm going to hallucinate about something it's going to be a steak. Preferably more than one." Both men had to laugh at that. In camp, food was an obsession second only to keeping warm. "So…what do you want me to do?" Kinch hesitantly asked, already knowing the answer.

Hogan shrugged. "Have him repeat the message," he ordered. "Hopefully, he won't be drunk this time."

Kinch nodded, then moved back to his key. His hand tapped out:

_PB GL RPT TC RPT TC_

* * *

><p>[Papa Bear to Goldilocks. Repeat time check]<p>

James frowned. _Guess he has nothing better to do this morning. Then again, neither do I._

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently before resending the message. _I wonder what the next question will be?_

* * *

><p>[0355 6Dec86]<p>

The right date. The wrong time. The wrong _year._

Though neither man would admit it, both Hogan and Kinch were more than a little spooked. Finally, with a distant gaze of thought, the black Sergeant broke the silence between them. He shook his head even as he looked up at his commanding officer.

"I don't know who's sending that, Colonel," he said. "But I know I've heard him before somewhere."

"Could it be someone in the underground?" Hogan asked softly. "Someone else you know?"

Kinch shook his head. "No, I know all of their fists," he quietly explained. "This one just seems familiar, somehow. I just can't place it."

Hogan nodded, then quickly came to a decision. "All right," he said, his voice firm. "We need to find out if they're on the level. Go ahead and send them a challenge using the emergency code," he ordered. "Hopefully, we'll find out one way or the other."

_And maybe we won't_, he silently added.

* * *

><p>The silence was longer this time. James was about to give up when he heard the beat begin again. This time, however, the message made no sense to his trained ear. Fortunately, there was a pen and notepad nearby on the table. James grabbed it and wrote down what came in:<p>

_PB GL SOI X 9323E X 15 X HUVIO X TECQA X MHYVC X KLYBS X WDRFG X_

Recognizing quickly that the 'X's were used to break words, he quickly broke down the message into:

[Papa Bear to Goldilocks. SOI 9323E 15 HUVIO TECQA MHYVC KLYBS WDRFG]

_What the hell is this?_ _Some sort of code? Of course it's a code. That is, if SOI still stands for Signal Operating Instructions._

_Screw this. Whoever this guy is, he can go and play games with himself. I'm too tired for this._

James rose from the table and stretched his arms outward. As he did so, he happened to look down at the table. It was then that he noticed something odd with the old papers he had taken from the radio box. A manual was now laying on top of the stack. Puzzled, he frowned at it.

_Where the hell did this come from? _he wondered, curious. _Sure as hell wasn't there before. Nothing but crap…._ He read the front cover. _United States Army Signal Corps, Signal Operating Instructions, 9323E…_

_That's the same number in the damned message! _He flipped open the cover and rifled through a few of the pages. Sure enough, it was a code book. The yellowing paper, he noted absently, made him feel ancient. _I remember now; they used the E to designate 'emergency'. As in 'emergency code.' What did this guy do? Find a copy of an old manual at a garage sale somewhere, then plays with people's minds? The odds of finding someone else with the same damned code book in the same damned area must be up there with the moon._

_Okay, I can play his game. Let's watch his head spin; I can send with the best of them._

It took a few minutes for him to remember the old format, but he soon decoded the message into:

CHLNGE WORD OBSIDIAN RESPOND

_Challenge word obsidian. Respond. _

He flipped to the back of the book. _Another code. Unless you had the damned book, you wouldn't know what it meant. You decoded the message, then replied a response to the challenge word. Send the wrong word and they know you're the bad guy. _His finger trailed down the page before it stopped at a certain line. _Okay. The response for obsidian is the word 'basalt.' Clever. If not stupid._

_So lets put that into code format. Then I'll add my own little twist and see what he thinks of someone playing his game. If he's still around._

* * *

><p>It took Kinch only a minute to decode the next transmission; both men were stunned by the last addition:<p>

[BASALTXK162X]

The last part - K162; the X's were fillers - was an additional contingency verifier made up of Kinch's 1st, 4th, and last digit of his Army serial number. In the unlikely event that the black Sergeant had to transmit from another location, such as another underground group, the addition of the last part would let Hogan know the message was authentic. It was a signature known only to the two of them.

_But they had never used it._

"What now, Colonel?" Kinch said, trying to keep his deep voice steady. His eyes, however, showed his true feelings. It was an emotion that the American officer knew only too well: fear.

In truth, Hogan wasn't too far behind him. The American officer put the panicky feeling in his gut aside while the rational side of his mind tried to make some sense out of what was happening. The radio that shouldn't work, but did. The wrong time and year. A code phrase that no one else knew. Kinch, saying he should know the person sending the message, but couldn't produce a name…

…_I know I heard him before somewhere…Just seems familiar, somehow…_

For a long moment, Hogan pondered the silent question. Then his eyes drifted over to Kinch's hand. Specifically, the right one…

…_I know all of their fists…_

Suddenly he had the answer, illogicial as it was. The Senior POW suppressed another chill that had nothing to do with the cold air in the tunnel.

_That's impossible!_

_Then again, I'm in a tunnel underneath a POW camp. I've been running an escape operation underneath Klink's nose for three years. What's impossible?_

_Even better: how can I prove it?_

Just then a memory came to mind. It was a moment from another world, almost. Hogan nodded in satisfaction. _That would do it, _he decided_. _Just then another message came in. This time, however, the missive was uncoded and direct:

[Who the hell is this?]

"Let me answer him this time, Kinch," Hogan ordered. With a look of relief, the Sergeant quickly moved out of the way. As the Colonel hunched over the key, the other man's gaze grew inquisitive.

"What's the plan, Colonel?" he asked, curious.

Hogan looked over and gave him a sly grin. "To see if I'm right," he answered cryptically before his fingers tapped out a message. The reply he got a minute later caused him to raise his eyebrows. Kinch, for his part, merely looked confused. Although he had heard the response, he had no idea of what Hogan had discovered. At least, not yet.

"You know this guy?" he wondered aloud in disbelief.

"Yeah," Hogan said heavily, a faraway gaze in his eyes. Suddenly, a smile appeared on his face as he turned and laid admiring eyes on Kinch. "Did I ever tell you that you're a hell of a radio operator?" he asked, his grin infectious.

Without waiting for an answer, Hogan quickly turned back to the key and rapidly sent more bits of Morse code.

_Next - Chapter 5: Alpena_

* * *

><p>AN: In the original version of this chapter, the substitution code Kinch received was all one jumbled line. For some reason, ffnet wouldn't let me copy it so I had to put spaces between the words and 'X's. Would have looked better MY way, but...oh well! This code is in five letter groups; the key (15) gives the page number in the code book so James can unlock the message.

The Ardennes Offensive (aka the 'Battle of the Bulge') happened on December 16th, 1944.

Stalag Luft III was the infamous mass escape immortalized in the movie **The Great Escape**; the Gestapo shot 50 of the recaptured airmen.

If anyone noticed, I gave Kinch a Regular Army serial number. Yes, I know: he received a notice from his draft board in one episode (and draftee numbers started with 3, BTW). However, I changed his ASN for the purposes of this story.

As always, thanks for reading!


	5. Alpena

**_The Hogan Zone: The Key of Time  
>by 80sarcades<em>**

* * *

><p><em>As always, welcome back! This chapter takes us into another part of Kinch's life and the first steps he took toward Stalag 13. This part is a bit longer than it should be, but I wanted to show my version of how the HoganKinch relationship started._

_Disclaimer: If only Hogan's Heroes were mine...:-(_

* * *

><p><strong><em>Chapter 5: Alpena<em>**

_Stupid codes. Stupid radio_, the old man cursed._ Who is this joker anyway?_

His fingers danced on the key, sending: [Who the hell is this?] The answer he got back wasn't what he expected; the fist was different. A new operator was on the key.

_What is this, a party line?_

Reflexively, his mind translated the incoming shorthand into something recognizable.

[This is Papa Bear. Where did we first meet?]

At that moment James felt like throwing the key against the wall. It was one thing to play games with old codebooks; it was quite another to ask stupid questions. _How the hell should I know, asshole?_ he angrily thought. _Like I know who you are! I know where I met the real Papa Bear, so try this one._

His fingers moved the key, spelling [Alpena]. The answer he got was unexpected; his jaw literally dropped in shock:

[You fixed my radio. 5July41]

James absently wrote the words and numbers down on the notepad. As he did so, his hand shook with a trace of fear.

_How the hell…_

_How did you know that? _

Unbidden, the memory came to mind…

* * *

><p><em>July 5th, 1941<em>  
><em>100th Army Air Corps Base, Alpena, Michigan<em>  
><em>Maintenance Hangar Six<em>

James Kinchloe glanced admiringly at the plane once more.

The B-17 was beautiful, no doubt about it. It sat forlornly in the large hangar just _begging_ for someone to fly it away. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

The plane, or so he had overheard, had been knocked around by a violent storm over Minnesota yesterday afternoon. A damaged engine, along with several other mechanical failures, had forced the large aircraft to land for repairs. Fixing the engine in question had been a simple matter for the base mechanics. Fixing the damaged radio, on the other hand, proved to be a bigger problem than anyone thought.

Due to the holiday weekend, the radio technicians that could have repaired the damaged set were long gone on a three-day pass. Usually, that wasn't a problem. The base commander would simply send a telegram to their home of record - or wherever they were at - and recall them to duty. Unfortunately, they'd had little luck in finding the men in question. James snorted, then shook his head.

_They ought to just say the hell with it and fly it on to wherever. But then again, what do I know? I'm just a lousy corporal._

The privates doing repair work to the interior wall of the hangar were halfway finished with their task. Soon, much to his disappointment, they would have to leave the hangar and its pretty occupant. _And to think I complained when I was ordered to bring these two jokers down here for a work detail. _Meanwhile, the black enlisted men he supervised were softly grumbling about having to do work on the weekend. The Corporal couldn't blame them.

_I'd rather be off, too. If I had my choice, I'd head down to Detroit and go dancing with my girl. Instead, I'll be back in the barracks area tonight drinking some near-beer and hoping an officer doesn't show up to bust the party. And I had the bright idea to enlist! Not that I expected much, though. 'Join the Army, and see the world' the ad says. Well, I've seen enough of Alpena that I want to. And I haven't even left the state!_

_I wonder…_

The space around the airplane was deserted. A mechanic, his back to James, was working on an aircraft engine some distance away. With a shrug of his shoulders, Corporal Kinchloe finally gave in to his initial impulse. _Why not?_ he reassured himself._ It's not like they're going to accuse me of being a spy or something._ James chuckled amusedly at the dark thought before he checked on his two charges again. Satisfied with their progress, he walked slowly towards the huge Army aircraft.

Up close, the ship was beautiful. To be truthful, he never wanted to fly one. However, to be able to actually _ride_ in one…

_A pipe dream, James. A pipe dream._

He lifted himself up into the fuselage. The cockpit, with all of its gauges and dials, was intimidating enough to his uninitiated eyes. Then again, so was the rest of the interior. Except for the hangar outside the windows, it was almost like stepping into one of Flash Gordon's spaceships. With that in mind, he stepped carefully - almost gingerly - through the aircraft.

Fortunately, a familiar sight soon presented itself in the dim light. With an excited grin, he placed his hand reverently on the front of the radio. To him, the setup was beautiful. It wasn't some collection of secondhand parts thrown together to make an ugly working pile of junk. No, this one was _real._

So what was wrong with it? And was it just with the set, or somewhere within the system? Well, a quick look wouldn't hurt.

A silver flashlight sat on the small table holding the radio. James grabbed it, flipped the switch, and shined the light on the metal housing covering the top of the black set. Fortunately, someone had already removed the screws holding the corners in place. With a smooth movement, the Corporal lifted the cover off to reveal the tubes and circuits inside. His experienced eye, aided by the flashlight, soon spotted the problem.

_So there you are!_ he thought triumphantly. _I can fix that, I think. I'd have to jury rig something, but it wouldn't be the first time-_

Suddenly, a small overhead light _clicked_ on, interrupting his thoughts. James twisted his head to the right and saw a man standing just outside the doorway of the radio compartment. The soft glow from the small lamp was enough to outline his white features and dark leather jacket. With a sinking feeling, James also noted that the light also reflected off the gold rank pins on the man's khaki shirt. A Major, a distant part of his mind noted even as his right hand automatically saluted the officer.

_Oh, shit!_

"It looks," the man casually began, "as if I've caught a German spy." He grinned slightly, then continued. "Or are you one of the missing radio technicians?"

James pushed down his fear and looked the officer in the eye. "Um, no sir," he said, rather lamely. "I overheard that your radio was out…"

"…and you decided to take the initiative to fix it," the other man finished. James really couldn't tell whether the man was being sarcastic or not. "If that's true, then you're not supposed to be here."

The Corporal paused. The Major, he realized, was right on both counts. _Why the hell did I even come up here, anyway?_ James thought, angrily berating himself. He was about to apologize when he saw the curious gaze the other man gave him. Most white officers he had met usually had an attitude that fell somewhere between indifference and loathing when it came to colored troops. This one, however, had eyes that seemed amused. James decided to take a chance.

"Sir," his voice began, hesitantly, "If you want, I can fix the radio. I grew up fixing radio sets as well as building them," he explained. "If you'll let me go and get my tools from the barracks, I can have this one fixed in about thirty minutes."

The officer appraised him silently. "You sure?" he finally asked.

With a start, James realized that the man was taking him seriously. "Yes, sir," he replied confidently. "I've fixed worse."

The Major nodded, satisified. "Come with me," he ordered before turning around. The Corporal followed, an eyebrow raised in surprise.

_Is he serious? Or am I under arrest?_

As James exited the plane he saw the meaningful glance the officer gave him. It was enough to jolt him by surprise even before his boots hit the ground.

_He's serious!_

At that moment, he remembered his two charges. James glanced across the hangar and noticed the two privates staring back in his direction. Their faces changed from glee to disbelief as the officer walked away from the plane. _I guess they figured the Major was going to rack me. Well, joke's on you!_ he smugly thought. With a hard glare and a hand gesture, the two enlisted men quickly returned to their work.

By that time, the Major was already talking to the maintenance sergeant. As James drew closer, he heard the NCO tell the officer that he could use one of the trucks parked outside the rear of the hangar. The Air Corps officer, his stride purposeful, strode quickly towards a small side door located near the back left corner. He opened the tin door and stepped outside into a small parking area where several cars and trucks were visible.

James, following closely behind, was surprised when the officer himself climbed into the driver's seat of a large olive drab cargo truck. With a press of the starter, the engine turned over with a loud _stutter _before soon settling down into a constant roar. With another raised eyebrow, the Corporal grabbed a bar on the passenger side and lifted himself up into the truck seat. As soon as he did so, the heavy vehicle lurched away from the hangar and onto the adjoining road

As they passed the airfield gates, James gave the other man directions to his barracks. The man nodded in acknowledgement, then spoke.

"I'm Major Hogan, by the way," the officer introduced himself. "Who are you?"

"Corporal Kinchloe, sir," James said formally. At that moment, curiosity got the better of him. "That B-17 is sure pretty, sir," he remarked. "We don't see a lot of those up here. Mostly, we have trainers and cargo aircraft. He paused, then continued. "Are you just passing through, or are you going to be stationed here?"

Hogan gave him a bemused look. "Well, I guess I can tell you," he said, grinning. "Since I'm pretty confident that you're not a German spy. That, or you've got the best camouflage act I've ever seen. "

James snorted once, then softly chuckled. _And they say officers have no sense of humor!_

"I'm going to England," the man continued, then jerked a thumb back towards the hangar. "The crew back there was going on a cross-country training flight. Originally, I was going to hop a ride, but the pilot came down with appendicitis at the last moment." He shook his head, then went on. "Fortunately, I can also fly planes," he admitted modestly with a small smile. "Beats taking the train."

"Must be fun," the enlisted man marveled, then raised his right hand and pointed. "Take a left here, sir," he directed.

With a squeal of brakes, the truck pulled to a stop in front of the Corporal's barracks. James ran inside and quickly grabbed the tools from his footlocker before he ran back to the vehicle. The return trip to the hangar passed in silence between the two men. Meanwhile, James took a moment to surreptitiously look at the man next to him.

_Handsome, for a white guy. I bet the ladies know it too. On the other hand, he's got something that makes you want to listen to him. He's not arrogant, that's for sure. I wonder what it would be like to serve in his outfit?_

_Guess I'll never find out, huh?_

True to his word, James had the radio fixed in under thirty minutes. With his task done, he fastened the last screws securing the metal housing before glancing at the nearby officer. "Sir, you'll need to have someone contact the tower for a radio check," he explained.

The Major shook his head. "You do it. Wait there," he ordered.

James watched as Hogan disappeared towards the cockpit. After a few minutes, he made his way back towards the Corporal's position. "Go ahead and power it up," he called out.

James snapped the electric breaker and power switches to the 'on' position and waited for the radio to warm up. With childish glee, he put the headphone set over his ears before he keyed the microphone. _Hopefully, this is already on the right frequency…_

"Tower, this is B-17 in Maintenance Hangar Six," he called. "Radio check. Over." After a moment, a voice _popped_ into the headphones.

"_B-17 in Hangar Six, stand by."_ As he waited, James listened in utter fascination while the tower cleared a plane for takeoff. Suddenly, the cool voice returned its attention to him.

"_B-17 in Hangar Six, Tower reads you five by five. Over."_

"Tower, B-17," the Corporal said cheerfully. "We read you five by five as well. Thank you. Out."

James slowly took off the headphones, not wanting to pop the dream he was in. He was actually in the plane of his dreams, manning the radio…

_Oh, well. Nothing lasts forever._

He put the headphones down on the table before he looked at the other man. "Thanks, Major," he said, meaning it. Hogan nodded once before James got up from his seat and reluctantly made his way towards the exit. As he did so, a raised voice stopped him.

"Corporal Kinchloe?"

James turned around and met the Major's eyes again. "Yes, sir?"

"Thanks," Hogan said, simply. James nodded in silent reply, then smiled warmly at the officer before turning away. For some reason, he felt really good. _And I should. I made a difference today._

_The Major is one of the good guys. Too bad there aren't more like him._

The two privates were waiting where he had left them. This time, their work was finished. James examined the wall with a critical eye before he reported in to the maintenance sergeant. Once that was done, the three men left the hangar. As they departed, the Corporal took a final glance at the B-17. The whole experience, as well as the aircraft, could only be summed up in one word: magnificent.

_And the way things are going, maybe I'll meet Major Hogan again someday. Of course, hopefully by then it will be _Sergeant _Kinchloe; he'll probably be Colonel Hogan by then…_

He pushed the pleasant thought to the back of his mind as he stepped out into the afternoon sunlight. After dismissing his charges, James leisurely made his way back towards the barracks area. The smile on his face, as well as his light step, promised to outweigh the boring evening that lay ahead.

* * *

><p>For the next three weeks life was uneventful for one James Kinchloe. Every so often, a low flying trainer would catch his eye as it passed overhead. For an instant, his mind would flash back to that B-17, of flying aboard her…<p>

_What's the point? It'll never happen._

"Kinchloe!"

The voice startled James out of his morning daydream. Sergeant Michaels stood there with a frown on his face. Not that was anything surprising; the man was always annoyed about _something_. The Corporal silently groaned.

_And the day was going _so _well…_

"Turn your detail over to Sanders and get your ass over to the annex building," Michaels ordered. "Room 23A."

"What for?" James blurted, unable to stop himself.

"How should I know?" the Sergeant fumed, shooting the junior enlisted man a deadly glare with his eyes. "And you can double-time it over there, too, smart mouth," he yelled, spittle flying. "MOVE!"

James immediately shot a significant look towards the other Corporal, who nodded once. With a quick motion, Corporal Kinchloe turned around and immediately started running towards his destination. As soon as Sergeant Michaels was out of sight, he slowed to a trot before finally outright walking at a fast pace.

_What's going on?_ he wondered, curious._ I guess they need someone to do some work. Lucky me._

He knew where the Annex was, though he had never been inside of it. On entering the building, he was surprisingly disappointed; it was nothing more than a series of wooden doors one right after the other. With a shrug, James followed the corridor to his destination. Without thinking, his right hand rapped on the door twice before he stepped back. Just then, a curious eye caught the words on the small sign next to the door.

_Signal Corps…_

As the door opened, James caught sight of an officer's uniform and immediately snapped to attention. A short, portly captain stood there; beads of sweat glistened on his red face. "You Kinchloe?" he barked, returning the salute.

"Yes, sir," James automatically replied. The officer gazed at him intently.

"I hear tell you can fix radios," he finally said, then moved out of the way. As he did so, he impatiently waved a hand back and forth. "Get inside," he ordered. The Corporal broke his stance and walked quickly into the room before resuming his original position. The interior, James noted silently, had an assortment of radios and parts laying on wooden tables. An open office door on the far wall revealed a desk covered with assorted papers. Except for the two men, the room was otherwise deserted.

Meanwhile, the Captain closed the door and walked around to face the new arrival. As the officer stepped closer, James was rewarded by a shower of bad breath that cascaded in heavy waves from the other man's mouth. The enlisted man kept his eyes fixed on the far wall while the heavyset man eyed him for a long moment.

"You're not here by choice," the officer eventually said, his clipped nasal tones evident. _Sounds like he's from New York,_ James decided, though he didn't say so openly. _And what did he mean by that?_

"Personally, I don't know if you know _how_ to fix a radio, much less run one, _boy,_" the officer sarcastically continued, his thick lips quivering. The Corporal, for his part, moved not a muscle. The Captain turned away, disappoiinted; clearly, he had been expecting a reaction from the colored enlisted man. With a jab, a large hand reached out and gestured towards the far corner where a large radio set lay on a table. "So prove it," the officer challenged. "Fix that radio over there."

"Yes, sir," James said, inwardly dampening his rising anger. He had no desire to get on the man's bad side any more than he was already. "Sir, if I could borrow some tools…"

"Over there," the man gruffly replied, pointing a fat finger towards a shelf. The Corporal marched over to the designated area and picked up the requested objects before setting to work.

In the end, the Captain had him fix three radios. Other than checking the repairs, the overweight officer said nothing else about his work. Instead, he curtly told the Corporal to report back at 0900 hours the next morning.

_I guess Major Hogan said something about me fixing his radio. That wouldn't be too bad if I could do that. At least I could sit on my butt some of the time._ The thought of doing something useful - even for a officer like the Captain - kept him awake and excited for most of the night. At 0900 precisely, James knocked on the office door. A Corporal told him to wait outside; someone would be along for him shortly.

0930 came, and went. Then 1000. James was about to knock on the door again when it opened to reveal the same enlisted technician as before. He told the Corporal to report to Room 28A and wait for further orders.

To his great surprise, a sergeant - a First Sergeant, to be precise, with more hash marks on his left sleeve that James thought were possible - was waiting there for him. He asked the Corporal a series of questions concerning his radio and Morse code experience. Satisified with the answers, he then led the junior enlisted man to a small room that was sparsely furnished save for a wood table and chair. A notepad and pencil lay on the desk, along with a Morse key. Instead of headphones, a sounder was connected to the key with a wire; more cords trailed from both devices and into the nearby wall. The Sergeant then told him to sit down, write down what he heard on the notepad, and wait until someone came back for him. With a quick turn, he walked out the door and left the Corporal alone.

James studied the straight key for a moment before a series of _taps_ from the sounder alerted him to an incoming message. It was short and to the point:

[Are you ready]

He let out a nervous breath and grasped the knob with his first three fingers before tapping out a response:

[Go ahead]

The electromagnet in the sounder then activated again, sending a series of metallic raps around the room. As the message came in, James used the pencil and paper to translate the message. Once done, he couldn't help but laugh:

[It was the best of times it was the worst of times]

_Well, I can play that game._ The message that he sent was just as nonsensical:

[A man a plan a canal Panama]

The room was silent for a moment before the clacking noise started again.

[Funny] the unseen sender laughed. [Are you ready]

For the next hour, James sent and received messages with his unknown opponent. He wrote the incoming messages down and sent new ones at breakneck speed. Unsurprisingly, it was almost as if the other sender was expecting him to fail. _And pigs will fly when that happens,_ James resolved. Finally, quiet returned to the room as the other operator signed off. Eventually, the First Sergeant returned. He examined the messages on the notepad carefully before giving James a long look. The Corporal met his gaze and saw only curiosity in the white noncommissioned officer's eyes.

"Don't make any long term plans, Corporal," the Top Kick curtly growled. "You're dismissed." Without another word he strode out of the room with the notepad, leaving a confused James Kinchloe behind. Ten days later, he received orders to report to communications training at Fort Monmouth in New Jersey. Even though Michigan would soon be a homesick dream, James was grateful for the chance to prove himself.

_And I owe it to Major Hogan, too_, he thought. _If he hadn't said anything, I'd still be stuck taking out work details. I'll be sure to thank him when I see him again…_

* * *

><p>With a start, James snapped back to reality. The kitchen suddenly felt as cold as ice. It had to be a lucky guess, he decided. <em>Had to be. This has to be a sick joke.<em> Old superstitions came to mind; odd stories of stuff happening to other radio operators. Ghost signals from places and people that shouldn't be. At the time, the stories were good for a laugh, but now the thought of them made him shiver. The code book from nowhere only added to the mystery. _Lucky guess_, he told himself. _You just got lucky, whoever you are. That's all._

_But what if it was real?_ a small segment of his mind whispered. Although he tried to ignore it, the facts were just too much to ignore. The code book, for starters. A strange message. And a signal without an aerial. It could be just a odd set of coincidences, but…

James nodded his head as a dark memory came forward. _Yeah, I know how to prove it,_ he thought. _One way or the other. _With trembling fingers, James reached over and tapped out another set of letters: [Eliza Jane]

He felt like a bastard for saying it, but he had to know_. And God forgive me for asking if I'm right._ For several minutes, there was silence on the wavelength. Suddenly, the drumbeat began again. This time, the message was a simple one. Two words on the notepad, written in black ink:

[With God]

With effort, James commanded his shaking hand to put the pen down on the table. His eyes stared at the words in disbelief; a fast, raspy breath passed his lips as he struggled to get his fear under control.

_You couldn't known that. You shouldn't even know who I'm talking about. You should have said 'huh?' Why didn't you?_

_Any other answer, and I would have been fine. But that wasn't just some lady's name I threw out. That was the Colonel's wife._

_Only reason I knew her name was when he was sick. We all thought he was going to die. Hell, the man was hallucinating; I was halfway surprised he didn't talk about the operation! We learned a lot of other things, though. I didn't even know he was married before the war, and sure as hell no one else did. If the Germans had had that card Hochstetter would have used it. Without a doubt. She was in some kind of accident back in the early 1930's, I think, when he was a Lieutenant. She was pregnant, too…_

_My God. It can't be true. Can it?_

Just then, the headphones came to life again. [Do you have traffic] it asked.

James snapped out of his stupor. In an instant, he knew what message to send. The help he should have given, so long ago.

His arthritis was forgotten; his fingers flew young:

[Papa Bear 15Mar45 Hochvoss will kill you and crew prepare repeat 15Mar45 Hochvoss…]

Even as he sent the message, his mind relived the nightmare…

_Next: Chapter 6 - Prius Ut Deus Ex Machina_

* * *

><p><em>AN: Five by five, in terms of analog radio communications, means the best possible signal (aka 'Loud and Clear')_

_There was an Army Air Forces base at Alpena, Michigan. Nowadays, or so Wikipedia says, it's a regional airport. Kinross Auxiliary Air Field, an auxiliary airfield under Alpena, later became an Air Force base before being renamed…you guessed it…Kincheloe Air Force Base in the late 1950's. There might be an extra 'e' in there but it's close enough for me! _

_A party line was a single telephone circuit with multiple telephone subscribers. My aunt had one when I was growing up; I used to listen to the gossiping little old ladies chatting away with each other. Along with me making rude noises, of course:-)_

_A 'hash mark' (or service stripe) denoted length of service. Each diagonal strip worn on the lower left uniform sleeve represented three years of service._

_'Flash Gordon' is the name of a science fiction comic strip. _

_The unknown receiver got the joke. 'A man, a plan, a canal - Panama' is the same forwards and backwards._

_At this time, Fort Monmouth was the home of the U.S. Army Signal Corps. It was the only communications training facility the United States Army had prior to the Second World War._

_The original Stalags (Oflag XIII-B and Stalag XIII-C) were liberated on April 6th, 1945._

_This is my version of how Kinch started on the road to Stalag 13. Obviously, the timeline is messed up - Hogan and Company have a tunnel system operating by 1942 even though the first American bombing missions were not until July of that year. So, making an educated guess (that probably deserves another story, by the way): Kinch goes to radio school and eventually qualifies as a radio operator. He probably then gets shunted around to several different posts before war breaks out. His commanders, not knowing exactly what to do with him (the square peg in a round hole, due to segregation) see this as an excellent opportunity to 'do their part' and transfer him to England. There he'll be someone else's problem._

_Now, how was Kinch taken prisoner in Occupied Europe? The obvious answer was that he was shot down, but how did he become part of an aircrew? In this version, its more than likely that Hogan ran across Kinch somewhere in England and 'arranged' for him to be 'available' for missions. If the radio operator on a selected mission was unavailable for some reason (surgery, for instance) then our good Sergeant would temporarily replace him. For the promise of returning home after X missions I'm sure that the aircrews could look the other way when it came to having a 'different' radio operator. _

_Of course, this runs into a further problem: the code books for the mission, as well as the communications orders, would have to be explained to and signed for by the radio operator. On the other hand, if you had a Colonel and other officers that looked away 'for the good of the service' then it could have been possible for Kinch to wind up on some of the first American bombing missions of the war. Ironically, both he and the Colonel end up in Stalag 13. I really should do a story on that, you know!_

_That's my two cents on it, anyway. As always, thanks for reading!_


	6. Prius Ut Deus Ex Machina

**_The Hogan Zone: The Key of Time  
>by 80sarcades<em>**

* * *

><p><em>As always, welcome back! This is the first of two chapters that ends the 'Key of Time' storyline. As you may have guessed from the chapter title, this is how things originally ended for Hogan and Company. In Latin, Prius Ut Deus Ex Machina means 'Prior to God out of the machine.' Given the plot, it seemed fitting. If the translation is wrong, then accept my apologies.<em>

_To St PA: I appreciated the prayers. Thank you._

**_WARNING_**

**_This chapter contains extreme graphical scenes of violence. Please feel free to skip ahead to the next chapter if desired. If not, read on._**

**_WARNING_**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Chapter 6: Prius Ut Deus Ex Machina<em>**

**_Stalag 13  
>March 15th, 1945<em>**

_They were all just trying to survive._

_If it hadn't been for the Red Cross parcels that Klink had somehow found - supposedly, they were for POW camps in eastern Germany; for some reason they had been stored and almost forgotten - the winter of 1944-45 would have been much worse. As it was, the camp was bursting at the seams with captured Allied airmen. In truth, there hadn't been enough parcels to go around. Colonel Hogan had ordered the contents of the boxes to be doled out piecemeal to the camp instead of simply passing the full boxes out._

_Even at that, it was just enough to get rid of the hunger pangs for a few hours. The Germans were just as bad off in both food and personnel. Most of the somewhat fit guards had been replaced by boys with rifles as big as they were. Even Schultz had lost weight; a lot of the boys joked that you could hide two guards in his loose clothing._

_There had been no operations, no plans. Instead, Hogan's men merely passed information on to London. Their main excitement had been watching the Allied forces inch their way closer and closer to the camp._

_Unfortunately, someone had been watching them._

_Major Hochstetter and his aide, Captain Voss - also a dedicated Nazi - had come roaring into camp, as usual. Instead of stopping at the Kommandtur, however, their staff car took a sharp turn to the right and squealed to a stop in front of Barracks Two. The two men then quickly exited the vehicle, machine pistols in hand, before Hochstetter kicked in the wooden door and entered the building._

_At that moment, Kinch had been in the radio room. The empty space in the tunnels, when compared to the overcrowded barracks above, made the underground system seem like a five star hotel. Like Sergeant Schultz, he knew nothing of the events above until the echo of the first shots reached his ears. By then, of course, it was too late._

_Once inside the barracks, Hochstetter and Voss separated out Colonel Hogan and three other men - Carter, LeBeau, and Newkirk - and forced the rest of the prisoners out of their barracks. Although they could have overpowered the Germans by sheer numbers, none of the other prisoners attempted to do so. The prearranged hand signal they had been told to watch out for - a certain gesture that meant 'prisoners are in danger' - was not given by the Colonel. In the absence of that, the will to survive - as well as lethargy from hunger - was just too strong to ignore. _

_Soon, the barracks was empty except for one ill Sergeant that Hochstetter somehow missed. From him, Kinch learned what happened._

_Colonel Hogan had tried to talk to the Major, but Hochstetter had would have none of it. From the start, his harsh voice was screaming incoherent words of rage at the American officer. The Colonel, finally realizing the danger he and his men were in, tried to use his smooth voice to calm things down. For his trouble, the Gestapo Major responded by violently ramming the butt of his weapon into Hogan's stomach. At that moment, the camp Kommandant opened the barracks door. As he stood in the doorway, Klink's mouth fell open at the sight of his Senior Prisoner of War gasping for air. He didn't even demand to know what the two Gestapo men were doing with his prisoners. More accurately, he didn't have time. Major Hochstetter, followed by Captain Voss, leveled their weapons at Colonel Klink and opened fire._

_Klink's split-second instinct for self-preservation was the only thing that saved him. The Luftwaffe Colonel threw himself outside and away from the hail of lead before running parallel to the barracks wall and to safety. The two Gestapo officers laughed delightedly before turning back to their intended - and momentarily forgotten - targets. _

_From his vantage point in the top bunk, the Sergeant watched as the Colonel and his men suddenly moved and jumped the two Germans. For a long moment, it seemed as if the odds were in their favor. Then their luck ran out as Hochstetter, in a burst of superhuman strength, twisted away from the American Colonel, snatched his weapon from the ground, and fired a wild burst toward the enemy officer. The packet of lead tore through Hogan's leather jacket and into his upper chest, causing his torso to jerk slightly from the impact. The Major savagely grinned in triumph as his nemesis fell heavily to the floor. Without realizing it, his finger jerked on the heavy trigger again. Two more rounds erupted from the muzzle and ripped through Newkirk's right shoulder, severing his brachial artery. LeBeau watched in horror as the Englishman toppled backward, red liquid pulsing in rhythmic spurts from the wound. Despite his fear of blood, the Frenchman's face twisted in utter rage at the horror inflicted upon his comrades. As one, both he and Carter - who had been struggling with Voss before being thrown back - desperately charged the German officers._

_They never made it._

_Another set of roaring projectiles slammed into the advancing men, cutting them down. Voss, who had finally recovered his weapon, joined in the fusillade until their magazines were empty. With practiced movements, the Germans checked that the men before them were truly dead. As a final insult, Major Hochstetter took his pistol from the leather holster on his belt and fired two shots into the American Colonel's skull._

_The man in the bunk had been too scared to move, too afraid that he would die along with the other Allied airmen. Terrified beyond words, he watched as the two Gestapo officers celebrated their victory with laughter and a cigarette. Finally, the men turned to leave. Like evil spirits, the two Nazis almost glided across the floor of the dingy barracks and to the front door. As they departed, Hochstetter's face glanced back at the dead men before contorting into a demonic leer._

_No one - not the guards, or Klink, nor the prisoners - stopped the two men as they calmly walked back to their car. For their part, neither Hochstetter or Voss spared anyone a glance as they serenely drove out of camp. The whole experience was unbelievable, even surreal. From what they later learned, the two Germans had gone back to their headquarters and shot themselves. Their Third Reich was dying; they had no reason to live._

_Inside the barracks, their mortal enemies lay dead… _

* * *

><p><em>AN: _


	7. Sacrifice

**_The Hogan Zone: The Key of Time  
>by 80sarcades<em>**

* * *

><p><em>The final chapter! Once again, thank you for staying with the story; I hope you enjoy the ending!<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 7: Sacrifice<strong>_

James was so intent on delivering his message that he failed to notice a thin plume of smoke lazily drifting up from the radio. Suddenly, the interior of the set sparked and caught fire. Frantically, James stood up and ripped off the loose metal cover with one hand while grabbing a nearby rag with the other. In desperation, he tried to put out the orange flames. Although he succeeded, it was too late.

The glow from the tubes disappeared as the radio died.

"NO!" James yelled. He quickly fanned the smoke away with his hand only to see nothing but burned circuits and scorched hardware. He flicked switches frantically, trying to bring the radio back to life. In the end, all of his efforts were useless. James collapsed back into the kitchen chair, frustrated, before his right fist lashed out and slammed against the kitchen table in anger. Then again, and again.

_My God, I had the chance! I failed! Failed again…_

The rage soon gave way to tears as his inner dam finally burst. For the first time, he truly cried for the men that he had been proud to call his friends. Tears dripped down his cheeks as he sobbed uncontrollably; the memories that poured forth only served to increase his sorrow. Eventually, he forced his head upward and looked through red-rimmed eyes at the kitchen clock. The black hands on the timepiece read 5:05. Another morning was about to start.

_I don't want to see the next one. I can't live like this._

James stood up. As he pushed the chair back, it toppled over onto its back with a loud clatter. He paid the sound no notice as his body woodenly walked towards the exit. As he stepped through the open doorway, James noticed something rather odd. A framed photo, illuminated by an overhead lamp, hung on the opposite wall. The former POW's mind froze, unable to believe the scene before him.

With trembling hands, James reached out and lifted the picture frame off of the wall before staring, utterly stunned, at the image it contained. "That's impossible…" he softly muttered. Just then, a sudden sound caused him to go deathly still. A woman's voice, coming from the empty kitchen behind him.

"You did real good, James," the voice said, her familiar tones filling the still air. "Come on, honey. It's time to go."

A cold chill washed over James like a wave; _he knew that voice…_ Slowly, reluctantly, he turned around.

The crack of glass shattering was the last sound he heard on Earth.

* * *

><p>"When was the last time you talked to him, sir?"<p>

Robert Kinchloe shook his head once before he tore his eyes away from the kitchen floor. The body had long since been taken away, but the memory of it was still etched in his mind. With effort, he looked at the nearby police officer.

"About three weeks ago," he replied with a sigh. "Dad was never big on phone calls. Curtis and Jeanette - that's my brother and sister - were on the outs with him," Robert explained. "They never called that much, if at all. I was going to call him on his birthday last Sunday, but I had an car accident that sent me to the hospital." He motioned to the sling containing his broken arm. "God, if only…" Robert started, then trailed off as his eyes teared up again.

"After I got out," he finally continued, his words choked, "…that's when I came over here. Figured I'd take him out to dinner, you know? Make up for things. He didn't answer the door when I rang the bell. I had a spare key, so I let myself in and…" Robert's voice trailed off, unable to finish.

The officer - his nametag read DIXON - nodded, then held his hand up. "Nothing to beat yourself up over, sir," he offered, though the other man didn't believe it. "There was just one other thing, though."

He moved over to the kitchen table. Oddly, an old radio sat on the flat surface along with a partially opened box of old papers. The item the officer reached for lay on one corner of the table. As the man picked up the picture frame, Robert's eyes silently locked onto one particular segment of the photo it held. Officer Dixon looked at the image, then at him.

"You said your dad was holding this in his hand when you found him," he casually remarked. "Just out of personal curiosity, can you tell me who these people are?"

Robert nodded. "My white uncles," he said; the black policeman gave him a questioning look. "Well, not really," he explained. "My dad was in a POW camp with them during World War Two. That's Uncle Robert," he said, pointing through the broken glass to a distinguished looking gentleman with graying hair. "Air Force General, before he retired. Lives out in Arizona now. That's Uncle Peter and Uncle Louis there" he said, motioning his finger towards two other figures. "They live overseas. The last one is Uncle Andy. He moved to Florida last year." He sighed again. "I've gotta call them," he said softly, almost to himself.

"That's about all the questions I had, sir," Dixon said. He took out a card and wrote a name and number on it. He handed it to Robert, who tucked it away in a jacket pocket. "If you need anything," the officer said, looking the son in the eye, "don't hesitate to call me. Ok?"

With a nod of appreciation, Robert extended his right hand. "Thank you," he said gratefully. The officer grasped the appendage in his own for a moment before he silently let go.

"No problem," the policeman said. Robert showed him to the front door. Once he was alone, he let out a long breath before he walked back into the now-empty kitchen. Memories of the past cascaded through his mind as he remembered how his Mom and Dad laughed and joked with each other; of dinners and homework that had taken place at this very kitchen table. And now, it was all gone.

_Damn,_ he thought to himself. _I don't know how I'm going to tell everybody. First we lose Mom, then this!_ Robert glanced at the picture of his Dad and adopted Uncles. He well remembered the night the snapshot had been taken. All of the men had been smiling and laughing for the camera; if anything, it was the best picture of his Dad he could remember. _Everybody was having fun that night. And then some. Now I have to tell them that Dad's dead. I have to tell Curt and Jean. God! We have to plan the funeral, then take care of everything else._

Robert's eyes idly looked at the scorched radio. For a moment, he wondered what his father had been doing with the old set. _That was Dad; always tinkering. All the stories my Uncles used to tell about him and that prison camp. I never got around to telling him how proud I was of him. And now I'll never get the chance._

_At least you went out while you were looking at your friends, Dad. That counts for something. Right?_

Silence was his only answer. His fingers caressed the Morse key for a long moment. _I remember when you showed me how to do the code. At least I have that. _He tapped out a message; a clicking sound filled the air before he stopped moving the key.

Robert dug his father's keys out of his coat pocket and walked to the front door. With a wistful sigh, as well as a final glance, he walked out of the house before locking the front door behind him.

The quiet of the deserted house was only broken an hour later by a series of metallic raps that echoed through the kitchen and beyond. The Morse key in the kitchen moved of its own accord as it tapped out a message before falling still. Had there been anyone to record it, they would have received:

[I love you too, son]

Even in death, Silent Keys are rarely silent.

[fin/ende]

* * *

><p>AN: As you may have guessed, a 'Silent Key' refers to a deceased amateur radio operator. Again, thanks for reading!


End file.
